Anne McAllister - His Chosen Wife

“We don’t, really,” Ally protested.

“And then set up a time early next week.”

“Are you listening to me? I don’t want to upset your schedule. I don’t want to upset your life. The opposite in fact! I should have called first. I don’t want—” She started toward the door, but PJ caught her arm.

“It’s all right,” he said firmly. Then he smiled at Rosie. “That will be all, thanks.” And he waited until she’d shut the door behind her before he let go of Ally’s arm and settled back into his chair again. “Sit down,” he said. “And tell all.”

But she shook her head. “What did you do that for? Why do you keep saying that?”

“Do what? Say what?” He handed her a glass of iced tea, then nodded toward the cookies. “My sister-in-law bakes them. They’re fantastic. Try one.”

“I’m not here for a tea party, PJ! Why did you introduce me as your wife? Why do you keep saying I’m your wife?”

He took a bite of one of the cookies and swallowed before he answered. “You’re the one who told her that. I just confirmed it.”

“But why? And she already knew that you were married!” It was the last thing she’d expected. She’d imagined he’d be keeping it quiet. Instead every other word out of his mouth seemed to be the W word.

“Yes. You’re my wife, so I’m married,” he said simply, and punctuated the reality by taking another bite out of a cookie.

“Yes, but—”

He wiped powdered sugar off his mouth. “You’d rather I’d call you a liar?”

“No. Of course not.” Ally sighed and shook her head. “I didn’t imagine you shouted it from the rooftops. You didn’t say anything in the article about being married,” she reminded him. “On the contrary, the article said you were dating hordes of eligible women.” She could have quoted word for word exactly what it had said, but she didn’t.

“Hordes.” PJ gave a bark of laughter. “Not quite. I escort women to business functions. Acquaintances. Friends. It’s expected.”

“But they don’t know you’re married.”

“Hell, Al, most of the time, I barely even know I’m married!”

His exasperation relieved her and swamped her with guilt at the same time. “I know,’ she said, clutching the glass tightly in both hands. “I’m sorry. It was selfish of me, marrying you. We never should have. I —” she corrected herself “—never should have let you do it.”

“You didn’t ‘let’ me,” PJ retorted. “I offered. You just said yes. Anyway—” he shrugged it off “—it was no big deal.”

“It was to me.”

Marrying PJ had given her access to her grandmother’s legacy. It had allowed her the freedom to make her own choices instead of doing what her father prescribed. It had been the making of her. She owed PJ for her life as she knew it.

“Well, good,” he said gruffly. “So tell me all about it. We didn’t have much of a chance to talk … last time.”

Last time. Five years ago when she’d come back to Honolulu for an art opening, when he’d showed up with a gorgeous woman on his arm. Ally gave herself a little shake, determined not to think about that. “It was a busy time,” she said dismissively.

“So it was. You’re a household word now, I gather.”

“I’ve done all right.” She’d worked very hard, and she was proud of what she’d accomplished. But she didn’t want him to think she was bragging.

“Better than, I’d say.” PJ leaned back in his chair and ticked off her accomplishments. “World renowned fabric artist. Clothing designer. International entrepreneur. Business owner. How many boutiques is it now?”

Clearly he’d done some homework, too.

“Seven,” Ally said shortly. “I just opened one in Honolulu last month.”

She had gone to California to art school after leaving Hawaii—after their marriage—and to supplement the money from her grandmother’s legacy, she’d worked in a fabric store. Always interested in art, she’d managed to put the two together rather quickly and had begun to design quilts and wall hangings that had caught the public’s eye.

From there she had branched out into clothing design and creating one-of-a-kind outfits. “Art you can wear,” she’d called it.

Now her work was featured not only in her own shops, but in galleries and even a few textile museums all over the world.

“Impressive,” PJ said now. He balanced one ankle on the opposite knee.

“I worked hard,” she said firmly. “You knew I would. You saw that I had.” Five years ago, she meant.

“I did,” he agreed, lounging back in his chair, and regarding her intently as he drawled, “And you didn’t need any more favors from me.”

Ally stiffened. But she knew that from his perspective she was the one who had been out of line. “I was rude to you that night.”

It had been the last time—the only time—she had seen PJ since the day of their marriage.

She’d come back to Honolulu for her first local public art show. It had been in the heady scary early days of her career when she certainly hadn’t been a “household name” or anything close. In fact the show itself had doubtless been premature, but she’d wanted desperately to do it, to prove to her father that she was on her way to making something of herself, and—though she’d barely admitted to herself—she’d hoped to see PJ, too, to show him that his faith in her had not been misplaced. So she’d jumped at the chance to be part of the show when another artist backed out.

She’d sent her father an invitation to the opening and had waited with nervous pride and anticipation for his arrival.

He’d never come.

But PJ had.

Looking up all of a sudden to see him there across the room, big as life and twice as gorgeous as she remembered, had knocked Ally for a loop.

She hadn’t expected to see him at all.

When she’d known she was coming back, she’d casually asked a friend who had gone to the same beach with them about where PJ was now.

May had shaken her head. “PJ? No idea. Haven’t seen him in ages. But you know surfers—they never stay. They’re always following the waves.”

So the sight of him had been a shock. As had the sight of the woman on his arm.

She was, in a blonde bombshell way, every bit as gorgeous as PJ himself. With his dark hair and tan and her platinum tresses and fair skin, the contrast between the two was eye-catching and arresting. The artist in Ally had certainly appreciated that.

The woman in her didn’t appreciate him striding up to her, all smiles, hugging her and saying cheerfully, “Hey. Look at you! You look great. And your stuff—” he let go of her to wave an arm around the gallery “—looks great, too. Amazing. I brought you a reviewer.” He’d introduced the blonde then, took her arm and pulled her forward. “This is Annie Cannavaro. She writes art reviews for the Star .”

He had not said, “This is Ally, my wife.”

In fact, he hadn’t mentioned any relationship to her at all. Not that Ally had expected him to. She knew their marriage had been for her convenience, not a lifelong commitment. He’d done her a favor.

But standing there, being introduced to the Star ’s art critic, made her realize that PJ thought she needed another favor now. The very thought had made her see red. She was not still the needy girl she’d been when he married her!

He’d been perplexed at her brusqueness. But Ally had been too insecure still to accept his freely offered help.

And—a truth she acknowledged to no one, barely even to herself—seeing PJ with another woman, a far more suitable woman for him than she was, had made it a thousand times worse.